


The snowy eve

by StarsandSnow



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Competition, Drarry, Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 12:19:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17223980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsandSnow/pseuds/StarsandSnow
Summary: Christmas fanfic for @drarryfanfiction's fanfic competition. Two lovers exchange letters as the snow falls silently around them.





	The snowy eve

**Author's Note:**

> Created by @lxlyhun and @abnormalwonderland on histogram, and @wickedlore on Wattpad!

The wind was soft that night, a lover's breath caressing the cheek of the earth. Alone at the heart his mansion, infamous lord and fiction writer Draco Malfoy wrote with looping letters that words of his latest manuscript, his breath escaping rapidly into the cool air of his home. This is what any outsider would see, but you, my friend, are not an outsider. Peer into the depths of those pages and you would not find a story but rather a series of love letters. Love letters to whom, only Draco knew. 

Dear Lionhearted,

The moon has come out to play tonight, a Christmas ornament. It beams in the sky like one of your brilliant smiles that I miss so much. Oh, now everything reminds me of you. That's what happens, isn't it? When you fall in love? I should know. After all, I am the writer of us both. Though you know what they say... you artists can peer into the windows of human souls, whether they are eyes or not.  
Anyway, the poems I long to sing to you are irrelevant tonight. Instead I write to you to tell you of what I am planning to do in the days following up to the Eve of Christmas.   
We have always discussed of how we would like to meet, my sweet, and perhaps we can in just a fortnight. By then, I will be back from my trip to winter kissed London, where, as you know, I plan on rewriting a few holiday classics for you to read once we meet. I know you love those. Though if you are as eager as I, perhaps I can postpone the trip until we meet, and then we can sail to the land of the modern together. You can paint the skyline, while I write just and only for you.   
My point was not to talk of my gift to you, which was intended to be a surprise but you know very well that I can't withhold secrets from you very long. I meant to discuss the means of how we will meet. I know that you would like for it to be a gilded affair, but I am afraid, my dear, that I would much prefer to cling to you somewhere honeyed, such as your bedroom. You know how much I long to make you say my name so sweetly. We have done so before, but only in my most wondrous dreams. In those dreams, you always wear a blue velvet jacket. We meet in gardens; there, we make love beneath a rose bush, which is almost always a different color. After we shared that most scandalous letter in August, I dreamt that the roses were white. Surprisingly, that was the first time they were such a shade. Ivory is so lovely, don't you think? Disregarding your constant use of red in your style, it is a gossamer wish of mine that you will be wearing white when we meet.   
I have reserved a place at Paris's most splendid restaurant for the both of us on the Eve of Christmas. I told them we were going to speak of the king's private business, so they will give us a private room. You can thank me and my vivid writer's imagination. Afterwards, I was wondering whether we could stroll along the streets until we find a suitable hotel. There is a wonderful one on the main street, a palace for a prince like you. Though, not quite as literally. There we may enjoy the pleasures that we never get to enjoy while only exchanging letters. Though these letters are one of the most marvelous things in my life, I won't be able to go without seeing your face for much longer.   
The next morning, I reserved a place for us at the tiniest café that serves only best pastries and eggnog. I would love for us to head towards my apartment after, where I can show you my collection of books and the Italian paints I bought especially for you. Then we may head to London, if you desire a change of plans on my part. There we may frequent their best attractions, and there we may enjoy our crafts.  
I have always wanted to watch you paint, my love. Your feather fingers and the way you hold your paint brushes must be sensual in ways I can only imagine. You'd be surprised by my patience, watching something so beautiful. I'm not only referring to the painting.   
By the time I have almost completed this letter, it is late in the night. The sky looks like the velvet on my dream version of you's torso. The stars have shifted, and the wind has become to howl. Is that howl rude, do you think, or is it yearning? What a silly thing for me to say. But you know, I am always thinking of these kinds of things. Not love, of course, but the humanity within nature. Maybe love, actually, but only with you. I am beginning to think the wind is neither, not rude or yearning, and certainly not angry or sorrowful or sexual. Instead, it is fierce, like you and your spirit.   
I yearn to see you and your lovely face in two weeks time, and I do hope that you show up on time, even if your letters, you say that you are always late. 

Love,  
Draco

After completing the letter, Draco rested there for but a moment, his hand still clenched around the quill. A soft snow had begun to fall, small taps against the windowpanes. The heat of the fire in its place had finally snaked through the room, smelling of December nights and home, feeling like a somebody's arms around him. Draco closed his eyes and imagined they were his lover's.

\- - - - - 

Two weeks later, still having not traveled to London, Draco stood in front of a restaurant called Noire, the one he had previously had a reservation for. The Noire stood grand and proud, a magnificent piece of architecture carved from night black stone, the doors ornate with starry jewels. Draco had promised his love a restaurant for royalty, and that's exactly what was given.  
The restaurant was placed on a glamorous street called the Rue des Étoiles, where paintings of stars were splashed across storefronts and the main color on the entire street was black. It was a unique place that Draco adored with all his heart. That time of year, the street was clothed in sheets of white, dusky snow, turned gray by the pollution and Paris's many people. It was still magical despite the hint of dusk and decay, glimmering beneath the angelically white sun that Christmas Eve morning.   
His heart beating almost out of his chest, Draco wrapped his arms around his handsomely dressed self and squeezed, caught in the web of that which writers like him called love. He was almost frightened to see his darling, and do things like those in love did.   
"Is that you I see?" The voice was all at once everything and nothing Draco and had expected. It was awfully handsome, rich and sweet like coiled caramel, the type of voice the curled its way around the small boy's heart and embraced it.   
Draco was almost afraid to turn. Once he did, he was met with the image of an autumn skinned boy wrapped from head to toe in worn material, his eyes peering out from behind a wool scarf like emeralds.   
His voice caught in his throat, but he pushed past the barrier. "It's me, love," he said softly, and Harry's eyes crinkled.   
They collided in the middle of the walkway, uncaring and totally head over heels in love, heads buried in necks and tears slipping not-so-silently down their cheeks. If one were to peer out of their bedroom window and see the boys, they would probably think nothing of it, but those who knew of the secret lovers of Paris would smile quietly to themselves and turn away so the caught would have their freedom.   
When the couple finally separated, the whole world seemed still, like it had stopped especially for them.   
Harry rested his hand upon Draco's cheek and smile lovingly beneath his scarf, letting his thumb drift downward so that it brushed his lover's lip. "Shall we get inside?"   
"Yes, of course." Draco's words were a tumble, and Harry laughed bellflowers and champagne in response. The two moved on inside, to their private room within a fantasy world that stopped only for them.

\- - - - - 

The two hadn't even finished their second coffees before Harry's fingers found their way to Draco’s hand. Freed from their winter attire, their bodies were still hot as personal furnaces, burning from simmering beneath their coats for hours. So Draco's hand was therefore very warm, and Harry had a great desire to make the boy's cheeks an even hotter temperature.   
When their lips touched, Harry's mouth tasted of gingerbread, and Draco nearly melted right then and there. Though he talked as of he dominated the world in his letters, Draco, in reality, was a very reserved and rather blunt man, so when the joy that was Harry tumbled into his life, he didn't know what to do with it. His writing, once somber and tragic, was now all honey and ambrosia, as if he were in love. And he was. In contrast, Harry had never met someone as generous and sharply beautiful as Draco. Harry's world and always been so gray, will all that politics business, but when Draco had arrived with his lyrical writing and realness, Harry went from hating life and painting landscapes to loving it and painting people. Their lives, when being introduced to each other as pen pals through their friends, had changed so dramatically that it seemed almost unreal.   
That was what Harry thought of as the two of them tumbled to the ground, his knees gripping the other boy's hips and their hands not knowing where to go, a gentle blush climbing up Draco’s moonlit face. Harry smiled and kissed his lover harder.

\- - - - - 

Draco had noticed that Harry bit his lip whenever he painted. He chewed on it slowly, considering the endless colors on his palate with great focus, rolling it around between his teeth gently. He enjoyed watching that, strangely enough. As he had promised in so many of his letters, Draco loved to watch Harry paint more than he had ever loved anything before. Though instead of watching his hands, he watched the boy's lips.   
And, placed a day after their Christmas Paris affair, watching with keen eyes those white London rooftops where the snow clouds twirled around the boys like a needy lover, the moon haloing the city as if it were Saint Nicholas himself, Draco and Harry loved each other deeply.


End file.
